Bronze, Sliver, Gold, Steele
by PompatusPaul
Summary: Crowley phones an old friend to ask a favor. Aziraphale becomes slightly miffed. Remington Steele is being cool. Giles from Buffy also in attendance. Finally complete!
1. Fit the First

_Disclaimer: I own none of the following: Anthony Crowley, Aziraphale, Remington Steele, Harry Chalmers, Azrael,The Ritz, or a stylish London flat._

* * *

Crowley needed to make a phone call.

He vroomed to the London flat in fourth gear, sprinted coolly up to his floor, and entered without using his key. Picking up the phone, he dialed a long, involved Los Angeles number.

The phone rang twice.

"Steele here," answered a suave, polished, upper-class English accent.

"Please shut up with that, Chalmers, I need a favor."

"Crowley?"

"Who else?"

"Crowley, mate!" The polished voice went a little cockney. "Anthony Crowley! Well, I haven't heard from you in-"

"Yeah, it, er, has been a while."

"How's… er… wotsisname? Azrael?"

"Uhhh…."(1)

"Or was it Azraphael?" Chalmers could sense he'd gotten something wrong.

"Oh, Aziraphale?"

"That's the one! How's the bastard doing?"

"Er, he's fine, Chalmers, and actually, I-"

"Ah, before you say anything- I should let you know that I have left my sordid past behind. I've, ah, gone over to the other side, so to speak."

"…What?"

"I'm the head of a private investi-"

"Oh, yeah yeah yeah. I knew about _that_. No, it's something else."

"Above board?"

"Completely."

"Well, name it, mate."

Crowley named it.

There was a staticky pause.

"Mmmm…. Yes…. I think we can arrange something."

* * *

The something We arranged was a Concorde flight from L.A. to London, upon arrival of which, Crowley met his friend and explained the details of the situation over a laid-back lunch at the Ritz. Things needed to be sorted out. 

"In any case," Crowley continued, pouring Chalmers another drink,"I called you because you are absolutely the most well-connected human being I've met in almost two thou- well, in a while, and I want this done _right_."

"I completely understand, old friend."

"And also if I tried to handle it on my own…. Well, I've found that things tend to go _awry_ when I do."

Chalmers allowed a grin to escape him. "I have some experience there, as well, I'm afraid."

Crowley also smiled. "So we're on the same page, then?"

"Absolutely." Chalmers raised his glass of fine red wine.

Crowley did the same, and they both sipped a silent toast.

"Hmph!" said a man-shaped entity who was named neither Azrael nor Azraphael, and he stormed out of the Ritz as best he knew how.

* * *

Aziraphale was slightly miffed. 

For one, Crowley had not been returning his phone calls. For two, Crowley seemed to duck out of sight whenever he bumped into Aziraphale in person. And for three, he had just seen Crowley lunching with that _con-artist_ at _their_ usual table, drinking _their_ usual wine. Not that he was jealous, you understand. Angels, by nature, do not feel jealousy, he reasoned. It was just that he simply couldn't understand why Crowley would behave this way. I mean, after all that unpleasantness six years previously, Aziraphale fancied thattheirsituation had become less an Arrangement and more a bona-fide Friendship. Perhaps he'd been mistaken. Maybe Crowley _was_ too submersed in the Demonic side of life, as Aziraphale had always feared.

Oh dear, Aziraphale thought. Perhaps I need to find a new friend.

Now Aziraphale was slightly glum.

* * *

(1)Crowley hadn't seen Death since the Almostocalypse. 


	2. Fit the Second

_Disclaimer, Part II: I still own none of the aforementioned characters/entities/real estate, though I do own a possessed computer. Also, I apologize for the non-sequiturness of this bit. A satisfactory transition is in the works._

Back at the flat, Crowley's phone was ringing. Not one to leave a phone unanswered, and as Crowley was busy at his mentally-challenged computer, Chalmers plucked up the receiver, and said in his best butler voice, "Anthony Crowley's residence, how may I- …. Ah! Laur- er, Miss- ah, will you excuse me just a moment, please?"

He ducked into Crowley's office, stretching the cord to its full length, and shut the door. Unnecessarily, as Crowley knew exactly who was on the other end and could also hear both sides of the conversation, even from behind his office door, but it made Chalmers more comfortable, and Crowley didn't actually care very much, so he contented himself with smirking at the computer.

He was typing as quickly as he could, which wasn't all that fast, considering his driving habits, when suddenly, the words and images on the screen began having horrible convulsions, and words began to appear in unfriendly fonts.

_CROWLEY _they read _WHAT IN SATANS NAME IS GOING ON UP THERE WE HAVENT GOTTEN A REPORT FROM YOU IN QUITE A WHILE_

"Errrr…."(1)

_OUR LORD AND MASTER IS SOON TO BECOME VERY DISPLEASED WITH YOU CROWLEY_

"Right, well, I'll-" Crowley frantically tried to delete the type before Chalmers finished his phone call.

_HE WAS UNCHARACTERISTICALLY MERCIFUL LAST TIME CROWLEY I WOULDNT TRY HIS PATIENCE IF I WERE YOU_

"Yyyyyup…." He hit Ctrl Alt Del several times.

_SO YOUD BETTER GET BACK TO WORK CROWLEY YOU CANT AFFORD ANOTH_

"Sorry about that," Chalmers said as he reentered the living room.

Crowley knocked his chair over in leaping up and stood with his back pressed against the computer screen.

"Ah, no worries," he answered, crossing his arms nonchalantly.

"…Mm-hm." Chalmers knew better than to ask. Crowley always had been a bit odd.

Crowley smiled, continuing to be the picture of relaxedness, except that the yellow eyes behind his dark shades betrayed a hint of the searing pain caused by teeny tiny letter-brands being pressed one by one into his back.

After about forty-two seconds of slightly confused silence, Chalmers decided to escape.

"Well, I should be off. I've, ah, got to check on the-"

"Ah, yes, yes. Fine. Thanks."

"Right."

"Yep."

"I'll be in touch." Chalmers was on his way out, swinging his overcoat around his shoulders.

"Right, thanks!" Crowley called after him.

As soon as the door had shut, Crowley sprang across the apartment, dashed into the never-before-used shower, and drenched himself in ice water. That had hurt a _lot_.

When he had gained the courage to return to the computer, he approached slowly and saw a blurred mass of dull red text pulsating illegibly. And at the bottom of the screen, in crimson so deep it was nearly black, was the following clause:

_WE ARE NOT AMUSED_

* * *

(1) The complete disregard for punctuation threw him off even more than these messages usually did. 


	3. Fit the Third

_Disclaimer Part III: Ditto everything from before plus a 1936 Super Charged Auburn Speedster, Sweet Charity, Christmas, Easter, 500 thread count sheets, Holy water, and Franz, who belongs to CaptainEmo and is being used by permission of same.

* * *

_

Aziraphale was dithering.

He was puttering around the shop in the way that angry or distracted English people do, getting nothing done, and actually probably making more work for himself later, but he neither noticed nor cared. He kept thinking about Crowley(1), or more specifically, the lack of Crowley.

It made him realise a few important things. One, Crowley was his only friend. The realisation of which led to: Two, practically everything he had done since the Beginning had involved Crowley directly or indirectly. And these combined realisations led him to conclude: Three, he didn't have much of a life. He knew that he shouldn't feel sorry about that, being on a mission and all. Still, even secret agents go to parties. Aziraphale didn't.

Well, to be fair, he had gone to a few. He could tick them off on his fingers, though: The first ever Christmas party. The first ever Easter party. The cast party after opening night of _Sweet Charity_ by accident. Oh, and Franz(2)'s birthday party that one time. That had been... a blast. Four. Four real parties.

Aziraphale sighed. And now Crowley seemed to be bored with him. Well, two could play at that game! Aziraphale set down the stack of papers he'd just picked up.

Tomorrow, he decided, he would look into getting a life of some sort.

* * *

Crowley couldn't figure out how to get that damn red type off his computer screen(3). Even unplugging the machine didn't make it turn off. He had serious misgivings about bringing it somewhere to get fixed, and even worse ones about just throwing it out. The reason for this being that he couldn't predict the outcome of someone's opening the monitor or the screen's getting cracked or smashed. Best case scenario: the monitor would blow up. Worst case scenario: demonic forces would be unleashed upon the world. Again. Crowley wasn't about to take _that_ chance. If only he still had some Holy water.

Of course there were no guarantees, but it was the safest option he could think of. Heh, he thought. Safest for whom? Ah well. Nothing for it, really. He'd just have to go out and get some more. But in the meantime, he'd have to hide the computer somehow. He couldn't have Chalmers seeing it in this state.

Crowley sighed frustratedly and bent to pick up the monitor. He heaved upwards. Nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing. It was like trying to pick up a pillar. He strained and pulled with every ounce of his demonic strength, but to no avail. It had either multiplied its weight by about thirty thousand or fused itself to the desk, which in turn had fused itself to the floor. In any case he couldn't lift it. He grunted angrily and stepped back, pushing wet hair off his face. He'd just have to hide it. What would be the least conspicuous?

Crowley looked around his living room. Couch cushions? No. Rubbish bin? Empty, but still no. His eye wandered into the bedroom. Sheets? Possibly.

Fifteen minutes later, Crowley was gone off to get the Holy H2O, the computer was covered with sheets with a note pinned to them warning Chalmers not to uncover it, and Chalmers himself was pulling up to the building in his off-white 1936 Super Charged Auburn Speedster(4), which had, naturally, come across the pond with him.

He trotted up the stairs, entered the apartment with the key, and was not too surprised to find Crowley absent, but was mildly surprised to find his computer draped in white sheets and gently fuming.

With slightly furrowed brow, Chalmers backed into the kitchen and started searching for a fire extinguisher. Unable to find one(5), he picked up a white sofa cushion in defence and approached the smoking monitor. Ignoring Crowley's note he carefully pulled the sheets off, intending to keep the 500 thread count cotton from igniting. When the screen was revealed, however, he discovered the source of the smoke, and it is fair to say that it scared the bejesus out of him.

Just at that moment the whole damned(6) thing burst into flames, and Chalmers started shouting expletives that he could not have said on American network TV and began beating the monitor with his cushion.

Conveniently enough, the Bentley also pulled up just at that moment, bearing Crowley bearing a large jar of Holy water(7). Seeing Chalmers' car in the drive, Crowley feared the worst, dashed up the stairs, burst through the open door, and had his fears confirmed.

"What the Hell's going on?" he screamed as he ran towards Chalmers and the blazing monitor.

"Your computer's on fire!" Chalmers screamed back unnecessarily. "What's that!"

"Water!"

Chalmers grabbed the jar, twisted it open, and doused the flames, which had begun to char his designer suit.

The fire subsided, but the screen also began to melt, the plastic to fold in on itself, and all the metal bits inside corroded right away.

Both men stood agape at the frightening mess before them, with steam and smoke commingling and polluting the air of the flat, Chalmers' arms still raised holding the jar and its cap. Finally, he turned towards Crowley and asked, "Is there something I've missed?"

* * *

(1)Stop it! It's not like that, okay! Ugh, you people.

(2)Franz worked (in fact, probably still works) in the Initial Adjustment Department of Purgatory. For more information on Franz, see "Thunderbolt and Lightning" by CaptainEmo.

(3)Ironically, inspired by this situation, Crowley later developed something that restored his good- er- bad name in Hell. I call it Those Bastard Websites That Attack You With Pop-Ups and Then Your Computer Freezes Because It's So Confused by Your Trying to Close All the Damn Pop-Ups and Then You Have to Shut the Computer Off Without "Shutting Down," So That the Next Time You Turn the Thing on, It Forces You to Run ScanDisk or Something to Make Sure None of Your Stupid Programs Got Hurt When You Turned the Computer Off the Wrong Way, Dammit! So All in All You End Up Losing Half An Hour Because Of Those Bastard Websites. Thank you, Crowley.

(4)Crowley had been made speechless for the first time in several decades when he laid eyes on that baby. And it was the first time _ever_ that he had felt lust for another man's car. He had wished the Bentley a CD player to make himself feel better.

(5)In point of fact, Crowley did own a fire extinguisher, after the bookshop burning down and his sunglasses melting and the Bentley being temporarily destroyed, but it wasn't in the kitchen.

(6)Literally.

(7)No one knows who Crowley's Holy Objects supplier is. Aziraphale has been suggested, but technically only priests can make water holy, and God, I suppose, but at any rate, Aziraphale has never given Crowley Holy water. The demon is known to have a contact in the Catholic Church that has been traced to Chicago, but that's another story.


	4. Fit the Fourth

_Disclaimer: To be brief, I own none of the objects, places, or characters in this chapter, except a tartan scarf. Mine is green._

_This is just a short little insert to get from what happened before to what will happen after._

Aziraphale strolled down the sidewalk, hands in tweed pockets, a tartan scarf wrapped round his neck, and a matching beret on his head. It wasn'tquite cold enough to justify it, being mid-October, but he rather liked the way the ensemble came together. And he was trying to make himself feel as good as possible.

The truth was he was totally socially inept, as far as most English human males of his assumed age were concerned(1). He didn't make a practice of going to pubs or football games or town council meetings. Obviously he'd come in contact with several humans, but to be perfectly frank, he saw them more as clients than potential relationships. Not to say that he didn't care for them: he did. But when you care about everyone, it's hard to distinguish between the people you want to smile at from across a cafe and the people you want to invite to sit with you.

He sighed and pulled his jacket a little closer. He'd been walking rather a long time without paying attention to the direction. Suddenly, he paused. He looked to his right. There stood a ramshackle building with the words Ye Library Occulte.

Aziraphale shivered. For an instant, he had felt that he should go into that building. Now, seeing what it was, he couldn't imagine doing such a thing. He tried to walk away. A few steps later he stopped again and looked back at the doorway. Other people on the pavement simply walked past it, not noticing the contrast between this ancient crumbling place and the well-kept shops on either side.

Aziraphale stood oscillating on the pavement for what seemed to him to be many hours(2), and finally, deciding that he would just pop in, have a look round, and leave, paced purposefully toward the old wooden door, hesitated one more moment, and turned the knob.

The door opened silently. Looking from side to side with his eyes only, Aziraphale slowly sunk his head into the library. He held his breath(3), and very cautiously slipped his tweed-and-tartan self into what he saw wasa fair-sized round room.

It was covered with books. Old books. Very old books. Aziraphale's mouth was slightly open as he looked at all the books. He had to keep reminding himself that they were not Bibles. They were the opposite. Do not give in. Have a look round, and get out.

He looked round. There was only one other person in there. A man. Early forties(4). Totally immersed in and surrounded by the oldest books and manuscripts.

He was... tweedy.

* * *

"Well?"

Chalmers and Crowley were still standing over the remains of Crowley's PC, the former staring the latter in the eyes as best he could.

"Er..."

Crowley was having a sort of moral dilemma. Actually, it was more like a logic dilemma. He could either tell Chalmers the truth about himself, and honestly, it was bound to come up if they just kept in touch for a few more years, or he could make up some fantastic lie that Chalmers may or may not believe. Or he could do a bunk(5).

He seriously contemplated the third and second options- in that order- before deciding that trying to con Chalmers(6) would take far more effort than he had available.

He sighed and sat down on his pure white couch. "All right," he said. "Sit down then. You're probably not going to like what I'm about to tell you, but..."

* * *

(1)On the other hand, had he been a member of the Foreign language department at a certain high school in the U.S., he'd have been oh-so-totally at home.

(2) This from someone who _knows_ what eternity is.

(3) Not that he meant to, or even realised that he did so.

(4) Actually, he was forty-two. No seriously, he was.

(5) American Transl. "Book it."

(6) The rough equivalent of which is trying to insult the French.


	5. Fit the Fifth

_Disclaimer: There's nothing new here, so I don't own anything that I didn't own in the last chapter._

_Another short one. I apologize for the pitiful lack of footnotes._

The tweedy man had not noticed the angel in his midst(1), and Aziraphale knew that there was still time to escape. However, a delightful opportunity had presented itself and would not be ignored.

He cleared his throat politely, and subsequently several reams of parchment scattered into the air.

"Oh, dear!" said the man and the angel concurrently.

Aziraphale rushed to help him pick up his papers.

"Thank you," said the man as he did so. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I didn't see you there."

"Oh, no, my dear, I beg you pardon, I'm sure. I didn't mean to startle you."

"Oh, that's, that's quite..." all his sheaves were bundled back together in neat piles and, he thought, were rather less dusty than they had been a moment ago, "quite all right."

Aziraphale smiled and stood up.

Tweedy stared at the piles of papers a moment longer, then raised his eyebrows resignedly and stood as well.

"Er, Giles. Rupert Giles," he offered Aziraphale his hand.

Aziraphale continued to smile. "Ezra Fell," he returned, taking Giles' hand.

Giles had an odd sensation when the angel shook his hand. _Isn't that remarkable_, he thought. _Remarkable..._

"So," Aziraphale went on, "what are you, ah, reading-" He laid a hand on a particularly ancient-looking volume, which let out a horrifying screech that continued to echo long after the angel had jerked his hand away. The book settled into itself and suddenly looked more the size of a pamphlet than the tome it had been.

Aziraphale's eyes were wide with terror. He took one look at Giles, whose eyes were even wider and staring at the angel in surprise and fear, and high-tailed in out of there.

* * *

Chalmers had a large glass half-full of brandy in one hand and his forehead in the other. He had not seen this coming. Anthony Crowley, a demon? A demon best friends with an angel? A demon best friends with an angel, both of whom having aided in averting the Apocalypse in the early nineties? Add to that Crowley's extremely well-groomed appearance and his excellent taste in wine, and it just passed into the realm of the completely unbelievable. But the computer. Chalmers had always hated those blasted machines. Now he would count himself lucky never to lay eyes on another one as long as he lived. That had been the single most horrifying image he had ever seen. All the circles of Hell belching fire and brimstone! Fire and brimstone which, worst of all, had materialised on his side of the screen. Crowley's explanation, ironically, was the only one that made sense. And Chalmers knew him well enough to know that when Crowley lied, he stuck to stories that people wouldn't question.

"Er, Chalmers?"

Chalmers raised his head. "Hm?"

"You alright, mate?"

"What? Oh, yes. Yes, I'll be fine."

"Good. Good."

There was another embarrassed silence.

"So," Crowley continued, "you still on board, then?"

"What?"

"You know, the favour I asked of you-"

"Oh, yes. Yes, of course. It actually makes more sense now, anyway."

"Good. Good."

"So, er..." Chalmers had several questions posing themselves abstractedly in his mind, and most of them he dared not ask, but there was one that kept jumping up and down, waving its arms in the air, that he couldn't ignore.

"So," he began again, "Are... are you... evil?"

Crowley was slightly taken aback at this. And though the first answer that had sprung to mind was "Um, _yeah..._" there was instantly a second thought that suddenly made itself known for the first time: "Well, steady on, now. _Am_ I? Am I _really_?" Surley Chalmers would have difficultyappreciating the difference between Evil the way he necessarily saw it every day in his work and Evil as a principle. Because _in principle_, yes, Crowley was evil. He worked for Satan. Much in the way that political followers of Hitler were Nazis. That didn't mean they were all psychotic mass-murderers. The thing is, Crowley had no real _malice_. Evil was just an assumed trait for a demon, as being bothersome was for a telemarketer. The majority of telemarketers are probably not bothersome in their personal lives at all. They're probably just nice people that you can be mates with. Like Johnny Depp.

"Er, Crowley?"

Crowley looked up from his desultory inner commentary. Was he evil...

He half-smiled. "Not in a bad way."

* * *

(1) People rarely do. 


	6. Fit the Sixth

Hey, look at me! I'm updating! I could argue that this long, drawn-out hiatus was really just a furtive reference to a certain favorite TV show of mine, but that would be a lie. When Writer's Block hits here, it takes no prisoners. But Senior Essay has been giving me brain pains, and this is the result. It's short and hopefully kind of funny.

We pick up where we left off….

_Disclaimer: I still don't own any of the characters, settings, or objects contained in the following. Also, there's a Hitchhiker's Guide reference in here. See if you can spot it._

Aziraphale walked as briskly as he could without breaking into an out-an-out run, and was about half-way down the block when he heard Giles calling his assumed name(1).

He ignored him and started running. Giles ran too. Aziraphale glanced to the right and ducked into a side street.

"Mr. Fell!" Giles called. "That—"

Aziraphale stopped, staring at the brick wall that blocked his path.

"Doesn't lead anywhere..." Giles finished.

Aziraphale turned to look at him. Then he looked back at the brick wall(2). _Damn_... he thought.

"It's all right," Giles said, "I, I just wa— how... how did you...?"

The angel affected a look of harmless ignorance, "How did I what?"

"Wuh—" Giles pointed helplessly back in the direction of the bookstore. "That, that, that, that book..." he began to explain. "It was possessed... You exorcised it."

"Really? I'd no idea(3)."

"So... what did you think that was?" Giles asked slowly.

"Well, I'm sure I didn't know. Why do you think I ran?" The angel silently congratulated himself on this rare moment of quick thinking.

Giles regarded him warily. "So you drove a demon from the pages of a book, where it has been thriving and causing havoc for century upon century... by accident."

"Must have done," Aziraphale answered, retaining his impenetrable air of naïveté. "Now, if you don't mind?" and he began to make his way past this man and his uncomfortable questions.

"But..."

Aziraphale breezed past him and went on his way with as much dignity as as an embarrassed principality could gather.

Giles stood agonising for a moment before taking off after him.

Meanwhile, Chalmers and Crowley had to figure out what to do with the computer. Chalmers refused to let it anywhere near his Auburn, and Crowley refused to go anywhere near it at all.

"Well I can't carry the whole damn thing to the rubbish tip on my own!" Chalmers argued while Crowley stood defensively behind the sofa. "Can I at least take the Bentley?"

"Hel—God—damn it! BELGIUM!(4)" Crowley cried in frustration. "No," he said finally. "You da—you bloody well can't."

"Well then what the Hel—what are we going to do about it, hm??" Chalmers was a bit frustrated himself.

Crowley sighed. This was exhausting. "We could... Well, we could... hire a man?"

"Hire a man to come in here and dispose of your portal to...you-know-where?"

"It isn't a portal."

"Really? Because it looked an awful lot like one to me."

"Obviously you've never seen one before, then."

"That's not the poi— aggghhh never mind." Chalmers sank back into a chair.

Crowley leaned on the back of the sofa and gave a surreptitious glance in the computer's direction. It was really too bad that he couldn't just disappear it. But he was a demon, not a magician...

"Wait a sec..." Crowley said. "Aziraphale!"

"What?" Chalmers answered.

"Aziraphale!" Crowley said again.

"Yes, so you keep saying, but no matter how many times you repeat it, I still don't know what the bugger you're talking about!" Chalmers nearly shouted.

"The angel!!!" Crowley nearly shouted back. He hopped over the sofa and bounded to his office, where he immediately dialled the angel's number.

The angel himself was, of course, not home, and also becoming rather annoyed at being followed by this strange little occult man.

* * *

1. One he'd always thought was rather clever. 

2. Go ahead, make hackneyed "rock and a hard place" allusions, but I refuse to sink that low.

3. Oh, yes he had.

4. It seemed there were hardly any expletives left that he could use without drawing unwanted attention from one side or the other, and since this is K+, the F-word was out of the question.


	7. Fit the Seventh

_Disclaimer: I own none of the following: an Ansaphone, Crowley, Aziraphale, 1995, October 11, a London phone number, or a smug bastard grin. I hope._

* * *

Around about 1995, Aziraphale had finally broken down and bought an Ansaphone. Well, actually, Crowley had been frustrated at the angel's having missed one too many of his phone calls and materialised it for him. Aziraphale couldn't help but use it, not to seem ungrateful. He'd managed to get himself off most of the telemarketers' lists; thus the only messages he ever got were either from Crowley, conservative politicians, or--occasionally--potential patrons.

This is the log of his phone messages for 11 October, 1996:

"Hello there! You have reached 0171-7146-2342. I, myself, am regrettably unable to answer the phone at the moment, and so if you would be so kind as to leave a message, dear, I'd be ever so obliged…. How was that? Was that all--_BEEP_."

_4:35 PM_ "Angel! It's Crowley. You there? Pick up…. Alright, I guess you're not there. Er… you need to come over to the apartment--I've got this sort-of emergency. Call me."

_BEEP_

_5:42 PM_ "Angel? It's Crowley again…. Still not there? Okay…. Well I've still got that emergency thing, so whenever you get in, yeah?"

_BEEP_

_6:21 PM_ "Aziraphale, where the… are you? What are you doing? Why aren't you at home? You'd tell me if you'd died, wouldn't you?"

_BEEP_

_6:23 PM_ "P.S. The emergency hasn't gone away."

_BEEP_

_7:05 PM_ "You know that outgoing message is barmy rubbish, right?"

_BEEP_

_8:15 PM_ "WHERE ARE YOU?"

_BEEP_

_9:00 PM_ "Aziraphale, hi, it's me again. I bet you're just standing there over the machine with a smug bastard grin on your face like I know you know how to do, saying, 'Oh, I don't want to talk to _Crowley_ today. He can just bugger off.' Well I say YOU can bugger off!"

_BEEP_

_9:01 PM _"Sorry. I didn't mean that."

_BEEP_

_9:02 PM _"Actually, maybe I did."

_BEEP_

_9:53 PM _"Okay, you win…. …. …. Will you _please_ come? I need your help."

_BEEP_

_9:55 PM_ "And that stays just between us."

_BEEP_

_10:36 PM_ "….Aziraphale? Aziraphale? Aziraphale Aziraphale Aziraphale Aziraphale?"

_BEEP_

_11:11 PM _"…. …. …. …. _(Shut up, Chalmers! I'm trying to listen--_"

_BEEP_

_12:00 AM_ "That's it. I'm coming over."

_BEEP_ _End of final message._


	8. Fit the Eighth

_Disclaimer: I own none of the following: Giles, Aziraphale, Crowley, Chalmers, a café, demonic influences(1), English dithering (2), a sci-fi miniseries, a leather jacket, or a ficus._

Two really short ones combined into one slightly less short one, but rife with footnotes, as--noted so astutely by AnExiledFrank--they have been sorely lacking of late. This one may actually be excessive. You decide. (3)

* * *

"Do you deal with demonic influences often?"(4) 

"Daily…" Aziraphale muttered

"Pardon?

"Rarely, I said.

It was a little after teatime, and Aziraphale, not having been able to escape Giles' questions without being rude outright, had finally resigned himself to walking and talking with the tweedy middle-aged man. The angel was still morose at his only friend's…well he didn't really know _what_ to call it (5), betrayal sounded too harsh. But he felt betrayed, misused, rejected. Deep down in his heavenly being, he knew that those were just fancy words for self-pity, but he so rarely felt sorry for himself that he decided he was overdue. And so he wallowed in it.

"And yet," Giles continued, musing, "you have such… power over them…." He was obviously a little smitten. "I say, would… would you be interested in, er, meeting some colleagues of mine(6)? Because, well, you-you-you-you just don't know how, how much they'd appreciate meeting someone like you. Meeting you."

Aziraphale smiled pursedly, "Sorry," he replied. "I don't think so."

"Oh…" Giles was crestfallen, but tried to hide it. "Right-o, not a problem." He ventured a smile.

At this, the angel felt a pang of angelic guilt, but on no account would…the Boss, the Man upstairs, the ineffable He, allow one of His angels to get mixed up with this sort, let alone _studied_ by them.(7).

"So, what is it then?" Giles' studious streak had been awakened(8), and it was not so easily foiled. "Are you a priest? A, a, a, a prophet? Is this a gift you've had since childhood, or or or have you only recently discovered it? Were you, were you even _aware_ of it before today? Does anyone, anyone else in your family have have er special abilities? Is this something you learned, or or or does it come naturally?" When Aziraphale made no attempt to answer any of these, Giles continued, "Mr Fell, I'm truly, truly intrigued. Please, I don't mean to intrude upon your privacy, but matters such as these--well--they, they're, they're sort of my life's work. It's been my lot in life--always--to help in the fight against the demonic forces at play on Earth. And… to… to to have discovered a person such as yourself, who-who-who so effortlessly achieved what no one else has been able to for generations… I… I thought I could… learn something from you." (9)

The angel glanced at Giles' earnest face, touched by the humility of the request, and sighed.

"I doubt very much, my dear," he said mildly and truthfully, "that you would believe the truth."

Giles blinked and furrowed his brow.

* * *

Crowley owned a leather jacket(10). It was the baddestass jacket of all the badass jackets if ever a badass jacket there was. 

It was Crowley. Sleek, black, beautiful, and dangerous. One of the demon's deepest darkest secrets(11) was the satisfaction he derived from pacing around his living room by himself, wearing the jacket. Slipping the jacket on. Slipping the jacket off. Adjusting the collar threateningly. Slinging the jacket over his shoulder. Leaning against the wall with one thumb in the pocket of the jacket. Sweeping the jacket off the back of the chair and thrusting his arms into the sleeves of the jacket in one smooth motion. Menacing the ficus by reaching underneath the jacket and pulling out an unidentifiable spray bottle. Crowley enjoyed this perhaps too much.

But the only thing about his leather jacket that he loved more than wearing it inside the apartment was the thought of wearing it outside the apartment.

Now, in slow motion (12), Crowley stepped firmly and purposefully toward the coat rack, his footfalls echoing despite the plush carpet. His eyes had settled into a determined stare behind his sunglasses. He was a demon on a mission.

With one finger, he lifted the leather collar from its hook and, mindful of all his practice, swung the jacket with both hands around him while slipping one arm, then the other through the perfectly-fitted sleeve(13). He tugged at his lapels assuredly and ran a hand through his inky hair with the sincerity and gravity of a Reservoir Dog. Tossing his keys in the air and catching them deftly, he made for the door handle. As he twisted the knob, he turned seriously to Chalmers and asked, "Coming?"

Caught up in the absurdity, Chalmers adopted the same assassin expression, straightened his tie, and put on his own sunglasses.

"Coming."

* * *

"Really?" 

Aziraphale smiled congenially and understandingly and nodded, sipping his tea(14).

"Huh." Giles removed his glasses and, as he turned over this shiny new bit of information in his mind, distractedly rubbed his manuscript-besieged eyes. They smiled when he finally looked up at his companion and said, "An angel?"

The latter leaned back in his wiry chair and smiled, still nodding and sipping his tea(15). Giles studied him before asking, "You're not from Ireland, are you?"

Confusion plagued Aziraphale's face for a moment and Giles smiled fully, waving the question away. "Never mind."

Then he leaned back with his tea as well.

"Fascinating."

They both crossed their legs and sipped their tea, each content in the knowledge that he'd finally found someone equally as strange.

* * *

1. Only Mercurian influences. 

2. Though I excel at American sputtering

3. The chapter hasn't even started yet, and already I'm on #3.

4. Giles' way of kicking off conversation might have daunted most, but Aziraphale had had far stranger confabulations. And yes, he actually thought the word _confabulations_.

5. Not strictly true; he had a few words, but they all felt just a shade too jealous.(a)

6. That Wyndam-Pryce jackass would _freak_!

7. That was a science-fiction miniseries just _waiting_ to happen.

8. He went on to pose as a librarian; he had quite the studious streak.

9. Aziraphale had never met anyone with such a propensity for English dithering as he had himself. Coming up against it now, he found himself wishing Giles would just spit it out.

10. Aziraphale had given it a disappointed lip-purse the first time the demon had worn it, to which Crowley's response was,  
"Just think of all the billions of tea leaves whose lives were violently plucked and boiled away just for your temporal satisfaction. Think of all the sheep who went naked for your tartan scarves. And what about those poor grapes who were squashed to make your cabernet--"  
"You drink cabernet too!"  
"Quiet, I'm delivering a righteous monologue. At any rate, I think I'm allowed one little cow."

11.Of which there are only two.

12. Because he could.

13. Like a third skin.

14. It had finally occurred to him that his last good brew(b) had been rather too long ago, and no sooner had the scent of bitter black English Breakfast wafted out to him from a café, than his mood improved tenfold. He began to enjoy Giles' company immensely.

15. Which is _not_ easy.

* * *

a. Read: jilted lover. 

b. No, you silly American; not beer.


	9. Fit the Ninth

Ho boy, it's been a _long time _since I last updated.

Well, this is a scene that was never going to happen, because I hadn't intended to bring a certain character in at first, but the suggestion of a friend made me realize it'd be a good idea. And then I couldn't resist the idea of another certain character and Crowley meeting up.

Also, this is kind of the bastard child of two very different versions of this scene. One I wrote during study in a notebook which I subsequently lost; the other I wrote much later on, based on my memory of what I'd written. I recently found said notebook again, and decided that I liked parts of the original version, and so I've tried to incorporate both.

That's also why this scene is so much longer than the others. (Or at least it seems to be)

This is probably more for the serious Steele fans.

Disclaimer: I still don't own anything in this, despite my fondest wishes.

P.S. I think we're going to start winding down now. Just a few more chapters after this. Thanks to anyone who read/reviewed, you've all been a major ego-boost!

* * *

Previously, in this story (because it's been so long that even _I_ am beginning to forget the plot):

Crowley and Aziraphale, the improbable yet irrevocable angel and demon pair, are going through a bit of a rough patch following Crowley's perceived betrayal of the angel. You see, Crowley's got something up his sleeve, and in order to pull it off, he needs the help of suave, blue-eyed con man, Harry Chalmers (also known as Remington Steele). Aziraphale unhappily stumbled upon their lunch meeting at the Ritz and left in a huff after seeing the demon sharing their usual table with _that con man_. Crowley, however, didn't notice.

Following this, Aziraphale decided that he needed to find some new friends. He found one, too, in the person of Rupert Giles, expert on the Occult. Their introduction was a bit strained, as Aziraphale accidentally exorcised a possessed book in an Occult book shop, but after Giles' continued queries into the matter, Aziraphale grew to like him and eventually confided his angelic nature to Mr. Giles.

Meanwhile, whatever Crowley's planning has been put on the back burner. Not long after Chalmers' arrival, Crowley began receiving demonic messages on his computer screen from his infernal superiors, warning him not to shirk his duties and reminding him that Lucifer's recent uncharacteristic mercy wouldn't hold for long. Crowley managed to hide this from Chalmers for a little while… until the computer burst into flames, revealing what seemed to be a portal to Hell on the screen. Having doused it with Holy water, Crowley decided it was time to tell Chalmers the truth. He took it pretty well, considering.

Anyway, Crowley finally realized that Aziraphale may be his only hope of disposing of the now-mangled computer, and so he called him up and left a number of increasingly desperate messages on the angel's Ansaphone, finally becoming a bit worried and deciding to pay a visit. Of course, Aziraphale was in no danger; he was merely enjoying a night out with Giles (which is exactly as nerdy as it sounds).

And now, we are temporarily going to divert our attention away from our heroes to pick up another plot line.

We apologize for the inconvenience.

* * *

It was sometime past midnight but not yet time for the bars to close. Aziraphale and Giles were doing whatever tweedy English bibliophiles do when they're out on the town; Crowley and Chalmers were on their way to Aziraphale's bookstore; and Crowley's plush London flat was sitting quietly in the dark, breathing sighs of relief to have some peace and quiet. But not for long.

A rental car pulled to the side of the night-hushed road and doused its headlights. Two lanky people dressed in black emerged and silently stole toward Crowley's building. They paused at Chalmers' vintage Auburn Speedster, peered inside, and tried the locked door handles. They moved on. Going around to the side of the building, they spotted the fire escape. The taller made a jump for the ladder and quietly lowered it. They climbed up to Crowley's window and opened it(1). The taller, a man from the looks of his form-fitting sneak-thief getup, examined the inside of the window as best he could, while the shorter, a woman for a parallel but opposite reason, peered inside at the darkness.

Having MacGyvered the window open with bated breath and been greeted with no sounds of sirens, the two slid up the sash and crept through the window.

The woman paced quietly around the flat, checking for a bedroom with a sleeping faux detective in it and came up dry, while the man snooped around the sitting room.

"There's no one here," the woman, returning, informed him in a nevertheless hushed voice.

"Well that makes this a little easier, but it brings up even more questions," he answered, clicking on a flashlight.

Laura Holt clicked hers on as well and joined her ex-partner Murphy Michaels in searching the place.

"What name is this place under again?" she asked from the kitchen.

"Anthony J. Crowley. Perfect credit, always pays his rent on time, the landlord specifically remembers him, and yet there seems to be no existing evidence of his ever going to school or holding a job or living anywhere other than here. Oh yeah, and no birth certificate either."

"On top of an apartment that's been rented for the better part of fifty years, yet seems totally unlived in. Sounds familiar."

"That was I was thinking," Murphy agreed grimly. "The good ol' days."(2)

"Oh what are you griping about?" Laura asked. "You don't have to deal with him anymore, and your own agency is flourishing."

"Yeah, I don't have to deal with him except when he skips off to a foreign country and you need me to help you find him. And it's funny that you mention my own agency, because I really have better things to do than to be here--"

"To be here with me?" Laura finished, only a little insulted, with a teasing look in her eyes.

Murphy glanced sardonically at her through his eyebrows as he flipped through Crowley's CDs.

"What kind of music does Mr. Steele listen to?" he asked.

Laura joined him and examined one of the cases.

"Good question. With him, it's always been more the silver screen than the platinum record. I couldn't pin him down to a genre."

"Chopin, Beethoven, Mozart… Queen.(3)" Murphy dropped them back onto their shelf. "No videos."

"Mr. Steele prefers to go to the movies," Laura supplied.

Murphy rolled his eyes, and the pair continued searching.

"So," he began, studying the inside of a cabinet, "he still hasn't told you his real name?"

"I hardly think it matters," Laura answered. "That's a part of his life he's left behind, and since he's the kind of man whose current title as much determines who he is as what he does, I'm fine with not knowing."

"Right."

After a lengthy silence, Laura said, "But there _are_ two things that trouble me about this." She closed a drawer and began to pace toward her friend.

"Oh yeah? What are they?"

"This apartment has been rented under the same name for the past forty-five years or so, putting the date of its occupancy several years before Mr. Steele's birth."

Murphy silently rued that particular date.

"And secondly," Laura continued without noticing, "_M.O. _Our Mr. Steele does have a noted fondness of connecting his aliases to Humphrey Bogart, but I don't recall a famous Crowley in any film noir, never mind a Bogart film."

"Easy answer to both problems," Murphy replied, flipping through Crowley's empty Rolodex: "another con was using this place as some kind of hideout or base of operations--under a fake name dreamed up long before--and when he died or got caught, Mr. Steele just took over."

Laura raised her eyebrows and nodded, seemingly accepting this as plausible.

There was another lengthy silence as they searched drawers and snooped around shelves.

Then Murphy broke it saying to apparently the world at large, "But you gotta wonder _why_ he's taken it over."

"What?"

"Why come back now? What was so important to make him leave on such short notice and keep it all a secret?"

"Well that's what we're here to find out, isn't it?"

"Maybe we shouldn't be," Murphy muttered.

"I beg your pardon."

"Whatever he's up to," Murphy raised his voice, "I'm pretty sure that you and I would be better off _not_ part of it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Laura asked a little indignantly.

Murphy backed down a little: he didn't want to fight over _him_. "It just seems unsavory. Like it's something you wouldn't _want _to know about. He certainly doesn't seem to want you to know about it. And then of course there's the other possibility," he added, bitterness rising up once more.

"And what's that?" Laura abandoned the painting on the wall.

"That maybe he just got tired to playing Sherlock Holmes and split. Come on, Laura, don't tell me you haven't considered the possibility."

Laura shook her head and turned to examine the Mona Lisa. "He booked the flight under Remington Steele; he told me he was leaving; he was still making excuses when I called--on his cell phone, which he took with him. Why would he make it so easy to find him if he was planning to escape?"

"Hey, I don't pretend to _understand_ the guy; I'm just saying it's possible."

"More like wishful thinking on your part."

Murphy silently agreed. _Not that it would change anything_, he thought.

As he was thinking this, Laura tried to ease the painting off the wall and instead discovered that it swung out in hinges, revealing Crowley's safe. The detectives gave each other the familiar look of having come upon something important, and Murphy stepped forward to coax the safe open(4). It was with anticlimactic disappointment that they released their bated breath upon discovering that the safe was empty. Murphy, however, sensed a small triumph in his reasoning.

"Well there you go."

"There I go what?" Laura asked, sensing smugness.

"There's the reason it was so easy to find him: he was leading us on. It's a dead end, Laura! He probably came here, made off with whatever was valuable, and then booked the next flight to Rio under one of any number of assumed names."

"I can't believe that."

"Laura," Murphy began in exasperation, "please. Let's just go home, huh? If he's split, he's split, and if he's planning on coming back, he will. We're wasting our time here."

"Well, _you_ can go, but I want to find out what he's up to and yell at him for it. You don't need to stay." She closed the safe and swung the picture back into place then paced back into the bedroom to continue searching.

Murphy almost did leave. Almost. Instead, he followed her and leaned in the doorway, beaten, like the obedient puppy he was.

The object of his obedience turned when she noticed him there and told him again that he was free to go.

"Come on, Laura," was the answer. "You know I'm not gonna leave you."

Laura placed her hands on her hips, and smiled. "It's nice to be working together again, eh, Murph?"

Murphy paused as an icy shock trickled down his back at the sound of the old nickname. He left the room and went on with his searching with a, "Mmh."

"Oh what's the matter now?" Laura joshed as she followed him out.

"That! That--right there--is the problem, Laura." His large eyes were dangerous even in the dark, and Laura was taken aback by the sudden harshness in his tone. "You act like the past _twelve years_ were just--just--nothing! Like I was just on vacation for a while, but now I'm back and at your service. 'Oh, gee, _Murph_. It's great to see ya again, _Murph_.' Just like that!"

This took Laura by surprise. "But Murphy, I thought you wanted your own firm! I thought you were content being your own boss, doing what you love--"

"Detective work isn't what I _love_, Laura; it's what I'm good at. But while we're on the subject, yes having my own firm was nice, but would it have killed you to call? Or were you too busy off having your grand adventures with Mister Tall Dark and Handsome?"

"Hey, leave him out of this--he's got nothing to do with--"

"He's got EVERYTHING to do with it!" They were now both unabashedly shouting. "All he had to do was walk in the door, flash a half-grin and a wink and you were putty in his hands!"

"How _dare _you?!"

"Don't lie to me, Laura. I know you. I know you better than he'll EVER know you. How long were we friends? Huh, Laura? How long?"

Laura was trying to hold in her seething. "I don't--"

"Well I do!" Murphy lowered his voice a few decibels. "I do." Wearily, he found an ottoman and sat, looking at the floor.

Sighing and still confused at his outburst, Laura pressed her fingers to her forehead. "Murphy, you're forty-one years old." She looked at him earnestly. "Surely you're not still burning a torch for me."

"I'm not _burning a torch_, Laura, I'm _in love_ with you. I can't _not_ be in love with you. I've tried. Oh, I've tried. I even got married once, but…. Anyway, the point is, we don't see each other for twelve, thirteen years, and then when we finally do get back together, it's all about _him_. And I could have stood that. I could have. But you…. You don't even pretend like you missed me. You really don't care about me…. Huh. How many con-men does it take to turn best friends into strangers?"

"You're not blameless, you know," Laura countered, determined not to lose this. "You could have called--you knew the number."

"I told you I didn't want to bring this up."

"Too late now."

"Why don't we just do what we came here to do and get the hell out."

"Good idea."

They continued searching the flat in pointed silence. Murphy's words were still tumulting around Laura's mind as she came across a business card left on Crowley's bureau: Messenger Used Books, Heavenly Texts at Saintly Prices, along with a phone number and address(5). The card had lain there for years and years, but Laura wasn't to know that; it looked as if it had been casually tossed there earlier that afternoon. As there had been nothing else to point them in any other directions, Laura picked it up, but as she did so, Murphy's voice carried through the flat in curses and fearful yells.

* * *

(1) Crowley used to have a security system, but when Hastur and Ligur busted their way in supernaturally, the thing kind of committed suicide, and Crowley figured there was no point in replacing it, since those from whom he really wanted to guard his home wouldn't be bothered by it. 

(2) For those unfamiliar with Remington Steele, here Murphy is referring to the time when Remington Steele was nothing more than a name attached to a fictitious persona, dreamed up by Laura to drum up business for their detective agency. The day Chalmers stepped into that persona is a day he grew to regret with all his being.

(3) Yes, Crowley did own one legitimate Queen album.

(4) This he achieved without difficulty, as it was a simple combination lock. Crowley's safe remained relatively unguarded for almost the same reason as the rest of the flat, but with the addendum that anyone who wanted to break into his apartment and then break into his safe would be deterred more by the contents on the inside than any security the demon could put on the outside.

(5) Aziraphale had mocked up about a dozen business cards at one point, just to look as though he were serious about selling books and had given one to Crowley, who had tossed it onto his bureau and promptly forgotten about it.


	10. Fit the Tenth

I think it's about time to wrap this sucker up. At one point, I was thinking of adding _x_ number of plot twists and action sequences, just for the sake of it, but then I realized what happened when _Lost_ did that, and so I'm just going to stick with the story I originally had in mind, sans superfluities.

I do believe this is the PENULTIMATE CHAPTER! Much excitement! Adventure! Romance! Betrayal! Oh, the fun to be had!(1)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the delicious characters contained herein, except for Fotas and Baskur, but really, they're hardly characters and they are far from delicious. I also do not own a book shop of any kind, graceful haste(2), or a nice leather jacket. However, I do, oddly enough, own a wooden cross.

* * *

The Bentley arrived with a screeching halt at the doorstep of Aziraphale's shop, leaving tire marks on the sidewalk. The two suave gentlemen inside stepped out with a kind of graceful haste, and approached the door. Crowley opened the door without bothering to see if it was locked, and stepped inside.

"Angel? You here?"

A stuffy wall of silence was his answer.

"What do you reckon?" Chalmers asked quietly.

Crowley didn't know. He also didn't want to admit that he didn't know. Thus, he stood in a quandary just long enough for Aziraphale and Giles to enter, conveniently dispelling all of Crowley's internal turmoil.

The angel and the occultist had been laughing and joking about something that normal people wouldn't have understood before Aziraphale saw the familiar car mounting the curb outside his shop. His elation turned to sadness then to bitterness and finally to rage(3), which he was able to transfer from Crowley's previous rendezvous to his current parking arrangement. And so, when the pair entered the shop, Aziraphale was all set for lecturing the demon on safe driving habits, but when he laid eyes on Chalmers, his lecture was deflated and he simply stood in silence.

The demon was able to collect himself first. "Where've you been?" he demanded. "I've been phoning for hours."

Aziraphale became miffed at his tone and simply answered "Out," with his angelic nose in the air. As he walked past, he made some cursory introductions and then went into the back to make some tea. Giles followed awkwardly.(4)

Not so easily put off, Crowley strode after them, calling Aziraphale by name(5).

"I've got a problem," he called.

"Have you, dear?" Aziraphale turned up the burner.

"Yeah, it's my computer, it's…. Are you cross with me?" Something in Aziraphale's demeanor was throwing Crowley off-balance.

"Of course not!" the angel snapped, effectively belying the sentiment.

"What's the matter? What've I done now?"

Aziraphale turned toward Crowley to assure him that he most certainly was _not_ cross, but before he could manage to beat out the words, the oddity of two humans and two demons materialising between the Bentley and his front door distracted him.

"What the—" and the door exploded.

"CROWLEY, YOU SCUM! Where is ya?!" screamed the demon dragging Murphy by the hair. Boskur and Fotas, two Hellish underlings, had been sent to check on Crowley personally after the incident with the computer(6), and had come instead upon the two private detectives. Lighting upon a good idea(7), they decided to take the humans with them and give Crowley an opportunity to redeem himself by proving his continued evilness.

But not without a fight did they carry out this plan.

Murphy earned himself a broken nose and a cracked rib for his heroics, and before he could reach the small handgun strapped to his ankle, he and Laura had both been subdued and were being dragged roughly as their captors transported them to the address held in Laura's hand(8).

And now here they stood, outside the benign Soho book shop, searching for the demon called Crowley(9).

"CROWLEY!" Boskur yelled again. Crowley himself had slammed the door to the back room shut and had frozen where he stood, eyes wide with fear, and he pleaded with the Universe(10).

"Crowley, what—"

"Shh!" Crowley silenced Chalmers. "Maybe they'll go away."

"I'M COMIN' IN!"

"Or not…." said Giles.

Boskur grabbed Murphy by the shirt and chucked him in through the exploded doorway. The demon himself, however, was barely able to set foot past the threshold before vaporising with an eldritch shriek(11). By the same token, Murphy suddenly awoke and was about to make for his gun when Fotas, shocked at his partner's demise but not too upset, grasped Laura by the throat and said to Murphy, "Oh, no no no. You go in there an' find Crowley. Awright?" 

Murphy, bloody, sore, and confused, decided that he was most definitely too old for this and grudgingly obeyed, wincing to his feet and staggering to the back of the shop. Coming upon the back room door, he summoned all his strength and the better part of his rage and busted the door open with a mighty kick, only to meet Giles on the other side holding up a large wooden cross as if it were a shield. Murphy ignored him and looked around.

When his eyes caught Chalmers, they became dangerous once more. "You," he growled.

"Murphy??" Chalmers' eyebrows suddenly went skew. "What the blazes are you doing here?"

"I'll ask you the same question later. Right now, there's some sort of psycho outside looking for Crowley, and he's got Laura. So," he turned to the other three in the room, "which one of you is Crowley?"

The demon in question reluctantly stepped forward, but before he could meet his fate outside, Chalmers pushed past him and strode toward the front door, hoping that either this fellow had never met Crowley or that the night would be enough to cloak his identity. Crowley himself followed, unsure of what to do.

"Alright, here I am," he said once outside, in his best A.J. Crowley impersonation.

"Here who is? Who's 'at?" Fotas furrowed his brow at this unexpected development(12).

"It's me—ahem—it's Crowley." Chalmers cleared his throat, distracted by the sight of Laura unconscious.

"No you ain't. You ain't Crowley. Where is he?"

At the same time, Murphy had crept up behind Chalmers and was peering stealthily through the front window. He aimed his gun and fired through the glass.

Somewhere in the tumult of the gunshot's blast and the shattering windowpane, the bullet struck its mark—Fotas' shoulder—causing the demon to growl in pain and drop his captive, whom Murphy swept into his arms after lunging through the broken window(13).

However, there were one or two flaws in Murphy's plan: one, he didn't realize he was about to shoot a demon (well, it's not really something you assume, is it?), and two, Fotas had been on the brink of being really pissed off, and now he had the perfect excuse to skip over the edge.

He growled again, "Know how I know you ain't Crowley??"

Chalmers hesitantly lowered the protective arm he'd thrust over his face. "…How?"

"'Cos I can do _this_." Fotas evaporated into streams of smoke and rushed at Chalmers, shooting through his ears and nose and mouth.

Chalmers lurched backwards and hit the blasted-apart wall, cracking the back of his head on it. Then he snapped his head forward, shaking loose his black hair from its suavely gelled state, his crystal blue eyes suddenly yellowed with evil, malice contorting his face. He glared at Murphy, still holding Laura and looking angry and afraid. Then he slowly turned toward the shop.

"LET ME IN!" screamed Fotas' voice out of Chalmers' throat.

"You bastard!!" Crowley shouted back. He grabbed Chalmers by the lapels and stared into the yellow eyes, trying to see the bastard demon behind them.

Chalmers laughed. "I knew you was in there, Crowley! The Master is none too please wiv you, seems to think you've gone soft or summink. So I broughts these two," he jerked his head at Laura and Murphy, "to give you somethin' to do."

Crowley shoved him away. "Well, you may as well bugger off, because I'm not 'doing' anything with them. I've got my own projects, my own style, you go back and tell them that. Everything's cool here, they don't need to worry about _me_ going soft. I've got big plans, _big_ plans that you can't even _imagine_. So go on, stop possessing him and scuttle off now."

"I don' think that's good enough mate." Chalmers' face twisted into a smirk.

Just then, Giles burst on to the scene. Once he'd figured out what was happening, he'd pulled his cross out again, and now he ran forward, wielding it like a broadsword and yelling "The name of Christ compels you!" But Aziraphale cut him off, not wanting anyone else to get hurt.

"Oh please," he sighed as he pushed past Giles, "let me see." His tone of voice suggested that everyone was overreacting to a child with a splinter.

"You and you," Aziraphale pointed to Crowley and Murphy, "hold him down."

Crowley grabbed Chalmers before he could flee, and Murphy gently laid Laura on the sidewalk, roughly grasped the other arm, and the two dragged him to the ground.

Aziraphale knelt in front of the afflicted detective and said, "Look at me."

Chalmers shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. The angel sighed and took him by the chin.

"I said, 'look at me.'" His voice was suddenly quiet and dangerous, and Chalmers couldn't help but open his eyes. All of the old twinkle was gone from them.

Aziraphale's eyes, still blue enough to make up the difference, gazed steadily and fast into the yellow.

"Now," he began. "Whoever's in there, you had best be out by the time I say 'three,' or I promise you—with the best authority—that you will have Hell to pay. Understand?" The slitty pupils contracted. "One… two…" Chalmers began to convulse. "And don't hurt him, or it'll be worse." The convulsions ceased. "Good. Three."

Chalmers gasped and coughed and blinked heavily. His eyes were blue again.

"Well that was unpleasant," he stated, breathing raggedly.

Murphy shoved him to the ground and went back to Laura. Giles relaxed and put his cross away. Crowley went after Aziraphale, who had begun to go inside.

"Az—" he called.

"Yes, yes, your computer." The angel waved his hand distractedly. "Consider it taken care of."

"Well, thanks, but that's not—"

"Not to be rude, dear, but I'm rather tired after all the excitement, and I do have a storefront to fix now, so if you don't mind?"

Crowley withered. He turned and walked away. Dropping the keys to the Bentley next to Chalmers, he sauntered down the street, his hands in his nice leather jacket.

_Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion…soon! (No, really, soon!)_

* * *

(1) And suddenly, this has turned into Dinosaur Comics.

(2) My haste is rather clumsy.

(3) But very mild rage...

(4) Heh, that rhymes.

(5) A rare occurrence that caught the angel's attention. 

(6) Which, through some demonic trickery, Laura and Murphy had (conveniently) overlooked.

(7) Another rare occurrence.

(8) "Well, that's convenient," you say. And yes. It is. Don't judge me.

(9) That'd be a really good band name. Demon Called Crowley. 

(10) The only higher power he felt he could trust.

(11) Aziraphale had his own security system. Crowley didn't know it, but he was the only demon allowed to set foot in the bookshop. Rather sweet, really….

(12) He could, of course, see in the dark, and he did, in fact, know was Crowley looked like. Granted, he was fairly stupid, but failing all else, he knew that Crowley wasn't that well-dressed.

(13) Murphy is such a badass.


	11. Fit the Final

My deepest, sincerest, and humblest apologies for abandoning this with such…abandon. I really did intend to finish it up within a week of posting the previous chapter, but I didn't.

In any case, here is the end. The actual end. It's just a short chapter, but to those who made lovely comments, those who have stoically endured the long periods of non-updates, and those who even just read one chapter and didn't think it complete rubbish, I hope you like it.

Herein, you will find: the reason why Crowley phoned Chalmers in the first place! Cheeky references to items of pop culture! Footnotes! And of course, everyone's favorite heroes, the Demon Crowley, the Angel Aziraphale, the Expert in the Occult Giles, the Con Man Chalmers, the Private Eye Laura, and the Vastly Superior to Everyone but Ever-Underappreciated Murphy.

_Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I associated with any of the genius behind Good Omens, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or Remington Steele. But I'd like to go to St. James Park one day._

* * *

A few days after the possession incident….

The ducks at St. James' Park paddled expectantly over to the two men standing by the pond. They were both fairly tall, one younger-looking and slightly darker than the other and wearing a black overcoat as opposed to the latter's brown tweed. They'd been strolling the park for quite some time, discussing things that any listener-on would probably have noted down and posted to a website, if it hadn't been 1996 at the time. They would have had some quite fantastical quotes.

At the moment, however, the pair had fallen silent for a bit, merely gazing at the ducks.

The man in black tossed a crust to the ducks. "So now we know the whole story," he said.

"Hardly," answered the other.

"Well, enough of the story."

"Hm."

"All right, let's put it this way," Chalmers was a bit exasperated: "I've been singed, beaten, shot at, hunted down by other-worldly beings, berated by my superior, possessed, exorcised, and, in short, scared entirely out of my wits all in the past fortnight, not to mention having stared into the depths of hell itself, and, frankly? Four of those activities are things I am not accustomed to encountering and hope I never shall again, so if there is anything more to the story, I would very much prefer _not_ to know, thank you very much."

Giles smiled to himself. (1)

"Anyhow," Chalmers continued, "can I count on you?"

"In a word? Indubitably."

They shook hands and threw the rest of their bread to the impatient ducks.

"Excellent," said Chalmers, in his deepest deal-making voice. "Just make sure he's at the Ritz for Tea."

* * *

They were the picture of autumn. Oatmeal-colored and mild-mannered, Aziraphale and Giles strolled through London looking for a place to eat, conversing thoughtfully about intellectual things, supernatural things, lots of things. Aziraphale had been out of sorts ever since the demon-possession incident. Crowley hadn't come by or called, and to be honest, Giles didn't know what good it would have done. The angel seemed to be in a funk at this point, and the occultist doubted that even Aziraphale knew what his own problem was(2). But there was now a Plan. If the Plan failed….But no, they had to stick to the Plan.

* * *

"We have to stick to the Plan!"

"But what if he doesn't show up?!" Crowley was a little nervous.

"He will! I've put that Giles chap on it!"

"Oh well then, in that case…."

"Are you being sarcastic with me?" Chalmers was never quite sure with Crowley.

"Not at all."

Chalmers grabbed the demon by the arm. "Come on; we're going to be late. Don't forget the champagne…."

* * *

For the duration of the walk, Giles had been stealthily steering their path down strategic avenues, designing to end up in a specific location without arousing the suspicion of the angel. He knew his labours had paid off when he saw the glowing walls of the Ritz Hotel towering before them.

"Oh look," he mentioned casually, "that might suit."

Aziraphale looked up and sank(3) further into his funk. "Oh. Well, my dear, now, don't take this the wrong way, but isn't it a bit out of your price range?"

Giles shrugged in the most cavalier way he knew, said, "Oh, just a spot of tea, you know?" and held the door open for his friend.

Reluctantly, Aziraphale stepped through the ornate doorway and was instantly surprised at the interior.

The place was empty and decorated with streamers and balloons. In the center was a banner inscribed with "Six Thousand Years," and underneath the banner was Anthony J. Crowley, dressed in a suit and beaming(4).

"What—" Aziraphale's words failed him.

Crowley advanced towards him, through the sparkling tables and down the elegant steps. "So," he said. "This is what it was all about. Chalmers and everything." His smile faded a little. "I'm sorry that I… that you—misunderstanding….I—" Crowley exhaled. "Six thousand years with the same person is a pretty good run, I'd say, even for enemies. For friends, even more so." He held out his hand. "I look forward to another six thousand years, angel."

The angel in question was shaken to his heavenly core. Tsunamis of emotion kept slamming over him—confusion, then relief, gratitude; the guilt had been a particularly strong wave. Now he felt himself overcome with the kind of sappy joy matched only by the tone of the final scene of It's a Wonderful Life. He looked at Crowley's hand, offered with the hope of being shaken, and lunged past it, gripping the demon in an angel-bear hug.

"Oof!" Crowley staggered and chafed awkwardly, then smiled(5) and said, "Happy anniversary."

* * *

In the center of the room, the demon and angel sat jubilantly toasting each other, themselves, and the past several millennia, while the exhausted and still somewhat bewildered supporting cast sat on the fringes, helping themselves to food and alcohol. Everything(6) had been explained to Murphy and Laura, who were still bandaged and bruised from the demonic abduction, but they had decided to ignore the details for the time being and enjoy the expensive champagne. Murphy was also deciding to ignore Chalmers(7), and Laura was still peeved at him for the whole ordeal, and so the two former colleagues got reacquainted while Chalmers was shunted off to a table by himself. He fell into a chair and poured himself some champagne.

Giles sank exhaustedly into the other chair. Chalmers tipped him a glass as well.

"Cheers." They clinked glasses as two men acknowledging that their mutual friends are more than a bit odd. Aziraphale had just burst out with, "Remember that time when Bill Shakespeare thought the Globe was being invaded by aliens?"(8)

Giles tasted the champagne and had to ask, "Moet et Chandon?"

Chalmers barely hid his delight, "Actually, it's pronounced Mo-ett. You see, Möet was born in France, but the name is Dutch..." and subsequently launched into a detailed history of the champagne, to which Giles listened with varying interest.

* * *

1. He wouldn't have smiled if he'd known what was in store for _him_ over the next seven years

2. In point of fact, he had forgotten, but he knew the reason had been a good one when he'd thought of it.

3. If possible

4. He was more relieved that Aziraphale had shown up than he would ever admit.

5. Still awkwardly

6. Or whatever...

7. Why stop now? He'd had a good ten years of practice.

8. And here's where Doctor Who finally made its way into this crossover fest.


End file.
